


Nothing Like

by breathtaken



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 07:41:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9592424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: It isn’t that hedislikesPavus. He doesn’t care nearly that much. He’s just so…Tevinter.In which Dorian learns that he and Krem are less alike than he thought, and Krem learns they’re more.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Pairings are Bull/Krem and pre-Dorian/Bull, but this is at heart a gen piece about Krem and Dorian.
> 
> Thanks to [PoeFaraday](http://archiveofourown.org/users/poefaraday) for yelling about Krem with me.

****If there’s one word to characterise the Storm Coast, it’s _grey._ Grey seas, grey skies, and here even the slow southern dusk falls with grey layered between the blue like _tracta –_ though by now Krem’s practiced at letting the memory of soft cheese and of precious honey, of the dry heat of the furnace and his mother’s hands, crack like so many layers of crisp pastry.

Firmly in the present, he huddles further beneath his oilcloth and slurps up his first mouthful of stew, mopping up a drop that escapes down his chin with the last of the bread he and the Inquisitor brought with them. It’s already three days stale.

The altus is sitting too close to tonight’s excuse for a fire, feeding it periodically with sparks from his fingertips as if he could make it burn brighter and hotter that way, expects it to bow in the face of his will. He’s grimacing into his bowl, and they’re nothing alike but Krem still can’t help his longing for a properly fluffy, still-steaming loaf to tear into and the kick of a hot pepper in his stodgy Fereldan stew.

He’s no stranger to fire formed in the palm of a hand, lightning or ice or pure force; but on the battlefield he saw the man put his enemies to unnatural sleep, saw him raise their bloody corpses from the shingle – and that’s not _normal_ magic at all.

Krem’s not squeamish, but there are some things that shouldn’t be messed with.

He’s looked too long: eyes meet his across the fire, the man’s moustache quirking, and he can feel himself bristling already. Every Tevinter he’s met outside of his homeland has been an utter shit he thinks entirely without exception, and so much for his plan to avoid notice as far as possible.

Whatever. They’re hardly likely to move in the same circles – Krem wouldn’t have believed that he’d find an altus fighting bandits on the Fereldan coastline, even at the side of the man they’re calling the Herald of Andraste – and so he turns away, tuning in on Dalish and Bull taking the piss out of Skinner for her earlier faceplant right in front of the bandit leader, forgetting everything he was thinking right up until the altus suddenly plonks himself down on Krem’s other side, at a no doubt perfectly respectable distance.

Krem turns to him, not knowing what to expect – but when the altus says in sharp, cultured Tevene, “ _I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. Dorian of House Pavus_ ,” he’s taken aback by the sudden lurch of homesickness for a language he hadn’t really expected to hear again in his lifetime.

Which only brings back his annoyance twofold.

“Cremisius Aclassi,” he replies shortly, speaking his name with the same flat Trade vowels he’s spoken it with for the last five years – and offering his hand Ferelden-style for good measure.

To his credit, Pavus – and Krem knows just by looking there’s a magister of that same name – doesn’t even blink, replying, “Pleased to meet you, Cremisius,” in Trade tongue just as posh-sounding as his Tevene was (though he can’t resist rolling the R just a little), giving Krem’s hand a cool, firm shake while inclining his head just enough that it could be considered something approaching a bow, if one was in fact an altus prick whose only apparent purpose here was to get Krem’s back up.

“Krem, then,” he says, mostly for something to say that isn’t what he’s thinking.

“Krem it is.” In the pause that follows, Krem meets Bull’s eye across the fire and then sort of wishes he hadn’t.

“You’re with the Iron Bull, I gather.”

Pavus lays a delicate stress on Bull’s name that isn’t quite mockery, but there’s still something amused about it that Krem doesn’t like – and he replies a little defensively, “Yep. Finest gig I ever had.”

Even that’s more than he wanted to say, but the alternative is opening the door for some tedious anti-Qunari bullshit, and as a rule he doesn’t like having to knock heads after supper.

“Indeed.” Again that smile, that Krem hears rather than sees. “He’s – _formidable_ , in the field.”

Now that was a little _too_ appreciative for Krem’s comfort.

Not that he’s jealous, or that Bull can’t handle himself. But it would certainly explain why this Pavus is down South, probably blowing off a few months’ worth of steam before taking his inevitable seat in the Magisterium.

Prick.

“I was hoping you had some tips on surviving this food.” Pavus grimaces theatrically. “I take it that the concept of spices hasn’t yet reached Ferelden.”

Krem shrugs one shoulder. “You get used to it. Worse on days like this though. Well, except the bread, you never get used to that.”

“Ugh. I was hoping for better at Haven, but I suppose not.” Pavus drains his ale, the firelight catching the working of his throat. “I never thought I’d miss _olives_. Roasted sweet peppers with soft cheese. Fruits of the sea in garlic butter. _Dates!”_

It’s simultaneously right, and not: Krem’s feelings on olives run dangerously close to something like regret, but the only dates he’s ever had he stole, and he was mainly brought up on endless variations of wheatgrain porridge. He can no more imagine eating the kinds of delicate dishes Pavus names than he can imagine owning slaves.

No, no matter what Pavus appears to think they’re nothing alike, and Krem was tired of this before it even began.

“Is that right.”

This time there’s a definite moment of hesitance before Pavus smiles politely and replies, “I’ll leave you to your meal,” getting to his feet with a swish of no doubt highly-fashionable robes.

Krem can feel Bull’s one eye on him; he ignores it and takes another mouthful of stew, which is noticeably colder and less appealing than it was, and tries not to think of hot peppers.

 

* * *

 

Of course, once they’re back at Haven he hears the whole story.

It’s ridiculous, of course – and yet entirely believable, because Krem knows Tevinter, and Pavus seems exactly the type. Like he said, there are some things that shouldn’t be messed with, and maybe if Tevinter could just understand that then they wouldn’t be the pariah state of Thedas.

Not that it matters any more. It’s just the lack of basic common sense that annoys him.

He doesn’t see Pavus after that, which is just fine by him. The Chargers are based outside the gates of Haven along with Cullen and Cassandra’s motley collection of angry mages, equally angry former Templars and any peasant who can hold a sword, and he spends most of his time trying to instil in them the skills to keep themselves alive at the very least, when he’s not breaking up fights. Pavus, by contrast, was quickly installed at the Herald’s side and has reportedly been in and out like a fiddler’s elbow – so it takes Krem completely by surprise when he walks into The Singing Maiden one evening and sees him there, sitting alone at a table facing the door, almost as if he’s been waiting.

He raises his arm and sketches a sloppy salute, and Krem spends a second idly thinking how much he’d enjoy punching him before he realises _the fucker’s drinking wine._

The last time Krem had wine was when he lifted it from some posh fuck’s larder in Orlais as unofficial payment for a job, just after Satinalia. Him and the Chief finished a bottle each in less than an hour, and then he got fucked up against the dresser still in his armour, leaving scrapes in the wood.

Pavus raises an eyebrow and then the bottle, in unmistakable invitation; and it only takes Krem a moment to decide it’s worth it.

It isn’t that he _dislikes_ Pavus. He doesn’t care nearly that much. He’s just so… _Tevinter._

He swipes a glass from the bar and heads over.

“Drink with me, would you?” Pavus says unnecessarily as Krem sits down. His eyes are bright. “Adaar found this in an abandoned house in the Hinterlands. Would you believe. It was on _fire_.”

“What in the Void were you doing in a house on fire?” Krem asks, pushing over his glass, drawn in despite himself.

“Adaar.” In Pavus’ mind, that seems to say it all. “I swear that man has a sixth sense for ten-copper junk, and insists on taking everything that isn’t nailed down. Of course then _someone_ has to lug it all around until we find a merchant.”

And this is exactly Krem’s problem. It’s clearly never occurred to Pavus the difference ten coppers can make, even to an Inquisition that may be Maker-blessed but is still far from legitimate in the eyes of Thedas’ powers.

He’s too tired for this.

“Looks like it worked out alright for you,” he retorts instead, gesturing at the bottle.

Pavus inclines his head, though Krem doubts his point’s been taken. “On the bright side, my new career as a pack mule is doing wonders for my physique.”

Krem snorts and reaches for his glass, taking a long sip of wine that has him closing his eyes for a moment in sheer bliss. “Wow,” he admits.

The corner of Pavus’ mouth lifts in a half-smile. “Reminds me of home.”

Of course, that ruins the moment entirely.

Krem had nothing like this in _Tevinter._ Even when they’d been doing comparatively well, his family couldn’t afford it.

There must be something in his expression, because Pavus’ expression sharpens. “But perhaps you don’t wish to be reminded.”

It shouldn’t be as much of a problem as it is.

It’s not like he hasn’t encountered his fellow exiles before, though he’s always made sure it’s as briefly as possible. Even if they’re not _complete_ pricks, they still always want to find common ground where there’s none, where none was left for him.

He didn’t choose to leave. Perhaps in time he would have, but at least then it would have been his choice.

Of course, he has no wish to explain any of this.

“Pavus –”

“Oh, call me Dorian. _Please_. If I wanted to be no more than my house name, I wouldn’t be here now.” His words are light, but there’s a tension in Pavus’ – Dorian’s – expression that gives him away.

For the first time, it occurs to Krem that someone like that doesn’t stay in Ferelden for the weather.

But he doubts Dorian would tell, even if he was planning to ask.

“This is my home,” he says eventually, “but I won’t say no to a drink.”

Dorian raises his glass. “Here’s to Adaar’s hoarding tendencies, then. May they keep us merry and well-lubricated.”

Their glasses clink across the table, and they drink in silence for a while. It’s just a drink, is all.

 

* * *

 

In hindsight, so many things are obvious. That the Breach had a very definite cause – a fucking Tevinter, of _course_ , when was it ever not – and that the thing that caused it wouldn’t just sit idle and wait for them to undo all its hard work when it could come after them instead. And though it’s a cliché to say it happened so fast, he’s learned that clichés endure for a reason: one minute Krem was sinking his third ale of the night and listening to Stitches tell a favourite Chargers story to a group of enraptured soldiers, so creatively embellished it was barely recognisable from the actual events Krem remembers – and the next thing he knew the bells were ringing to the sight of a thousand torches coming down the pass, advancing with deadly purpose, and a spectral dragon swooping out of the sky.

Krem doesn’t think he’d ever seen the Chief look unhappy about the prospect of a dragon before.

Like any good mercenary, he followed orders: fell back, though not without getting a few hits in first; then when it became clear they were utterly fucked, escaping out the back and along the mountain path, every one of them trying not to fear for the Herald – for the future – and all of them failing.

They finally set up camp when a blizzard threatens, though they’ve barely enough tents to get even the hundred or so who remain out of the snow. Krem hammers tent pegs and raises posts until his fingers are numb and achy from the cold, brushing the first flakes from his hair before giving up entirely as they fall thicker and faster, working until there’s nothing left to do are disappearing one by one beneath the canvas, his own eyes lingering where their vanishing tracks meet the horizon.

He doesn’t know if he believes that the Herald truly _is_ Maker-sent; until now he’d have scoffed. But when he imagines what will befall them without him –

The words are rarely used but come easily to him all the same, years of repetition ensuring his tongue never falters, not in this. For him it’s always been the language of the Chantry, the language of faith:

_“Maker, my enemies are abundant._  
_Many are those who rise up against me._  
_But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,_  
_Should they set themselves against me.”_

Muted by the snow, he doesn’t realise he’s not alone until another voice joins his; and it throws him for a moment.

 _"In the long –_ _”_

“– _hours of the night  
When hope has abandoned me –_ _”_

Dorian is dwarfed by a thick, dark pelt wrapped around his shoulders, and when Krem stops reciting he gives him a look that’s challenging, but lacks its usual bite; there’s something amused there that if Krem didn’t know any better, he’d call fond.

Krem’s mouth twitches in something not quite a smile, and joins him once more:

“ _I will see the stars and know  
Your Light remains.”_

Afterwards, Dorian has a hand pressed to his shoulder before Krem can think what to say, his touch fleeting. The wind has started to howl between the peaks, and though Krem strains to see a flicker of green, he can no longer see where the sky begins.

“Come on. Let’s get inside,” Dorian says, already turning away.

 _Maker, preserve him,_ Krem asks, only hesitating for a moment before he follows.

 

* * *

 

Things are different after that.

Well, Dorian is just the same, reflexively flippant and oozing Tevinter good breeding from every pore – but Krem can’t deny that something has changed. Perhaps it’s the influence of Skyhold, its walls high and safe around them, the mountain summer bathing them in light at least, if not in warmth. As the Inquisition’s army becomes less hopeless and more like something worthy of the name, the Chargers find themselves spending most of their days assisting on the rebuild efforts, and their evenings propping up the bar in the Herald’s Rest.

Even if Krem were still minded to avoid Dorian, he wouldn’t need to: the man never lingers anywhere Krem is, or anyone else for that matter. He seems permanently in motion, striding purposefully without looking about him as if he always has somewhere more important to be, even when he drops into the tavern of an evening to ask for a bottle of wine, frequently leaving disgruntled with beer or worse.

Though he rarely escapes without Bull having a chance to get in a suggestive comment; and tonight’s no exception, Bull slouched in the only chair that’ll hold him, rocking back on its hind legs as he booms out loudly enough to carry over to the bar, “Hey ’Vint, not seen you in a while. I’ve got an opening tonight, if you’ve got an _opening_ for me?”

Normally Dorian’s scathing retorts are immediate, but tonight he’s slow: for a moment there’s a naked shock in his face that looks almost like fear _–_ before he covers it by curling his lip with the air of one who would be horrified, were he actually surprised. “No thank you, Bull. May I suggest you use your copious amounts of free time to work on your _decorum_.” The last word given with a definite Tevene emphasis that Krem knows won’t be lost on the Chief.

Perhaps what’s different is that however briefly, he’s glimpsed beneath the mask: where anyone else would see nothing more than the crude qunari baiting the uppity magister, Krem sees someone who’s both weary and clearly _rattled_.

They may be nothing alike, but Krem, for his sins, knows Tevinter. And Bull’s not even giving him a particularly hard time, which means he knows exactly what he’s doing, and probably expects it to succeed.

Last night Bull put a thumb on Krem’s dick, two fingers in his cunt and one in his arse, and made him come and come until he was breathless; and now there’s a blank space inside him where he’d half-expected he’d mind this when it inevitably happened, but turns out it’s mostly just funny.

Bull’s as un-Tevinter as it’s possible to get. Bodies are just bodies to him and feeling good is just that, and Maker knows Dorian could use to have a bit of that rub off on him, so to speak.

Krem snorts into his tankard – mainly to show Bull his little display hasn’t gone unnoticed – and looks up at the feeling of a hand on his shoulder.

It’s Dorian – still here then, holding a bottle of wine close against his chest, expression firmly Polite and Charming and strained around the edges. “Krem. May I trouble you for your company?” He ignores the immediate hoots and whistles from the assembled Chargers; Krem gives Bull the finger when he starts waggling his tongue, fortunately out of Dorian’s line of sight. “There’s a free table upstairs.”

“Is that for me? You sure know how to treat a guy,” Krem replies, mostly for the benefit of their audience, but wastes no time in getting to his feet.

He swipes two glasses from the bar and follows Dorian up to the deserted top floor of the tavern, which does indeed have a single table pushed up against the stairs to the battlements, with a single chair.

Krem sits on the table without a word, leaving Dorian to take the chair, and Krem can see the moment he stops pretending: his expression crumples a little as he slumps forward, resting his elbows on the table and pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment, rings glittering in the low light. He looks older, sadder, and _exhausted_.

All of the things Krem might have said die in his mouth. Instead he takes a steadying breath and says in his clumsy, imperfect Tevene, “ _Do you want to talk about it?_ ”

Dorian doesn’t look surprised, either because he’s gleaned less of Krem’s feelings regarding their shared homeland than Krem had thought, or he’s simply too preoccupied in his misery. “ _To be brutally frank, to talk about it is the last thing I want.”_ He looks out into the night, where the torches of the night watch pass slow and steady along the battlements, though Krem doubts he’s seeing them. “ _What I wish is to drink, and not to be alone while I do so._ ”

Krem nods, reaching for the bottle and uncorking it when Dorian makes no move to do so himself. “Fine by me,” he replies, in Trade again. “Especially if you keep bringing me wine. Did the Inquisitor find this one in the belly of a dragon?”

A shadow passes over Dorian’s face. “I purloined it from the inn in Redcliffe,” he replies shortly, making it clear that’s the final word on the subject.

Krem takes a large sip of his wine. It’s not as fine as the first bottle but still significantly finer than beer, to say nothing of that awful spirit of Bull’s that he only tolerates in case it really does put hairs on his chest one day.

A minute or two passes in silence before Dorian says, with a hint of desperation that Krem pretends not to notice, “It occurs to me I don’t actually know much about you. How do you like to occupy yourself, aside from hitting things?”

Krem pretends to deeply consider the question. “Nah, hitting things is about the size of it. That and embroidery.”

“Embroidery.” Dorian raises an eyebrow. “ _Really,_ Cremisius.”

Krem raises his own eyebrow in response. “I’m just that secure in my masculinity.” He takes another sip of his wine. “My father was a tailor. It’s what I was brought up to. I still manage to fit in a bit of sewing, between all the violence.”

“But you decided you’d rather hit things for a living?”

Krem’s shrugs one shoulder. “That, and I refused to be married off.”

It doesn’t hurt to think any more, or even to say; but he thinks he’ll always be aware of the space where the pain used to be, the memory of it.

Dorian barks a laugh, sudden and humourless. “Well. I see we’ve rather more in common than I realised.” His expression twists, the dull pain he’s been carrying all evening suddenly raw. “ _Why_ do I –”

He shakes his head and sighs, looking out of the window and not at Krem. “No, I was right the first time. I really don’t want to talk about it.”

“Then don’t,” Krem tells him simply, clinking his glass against Dorian’s where it stands on the table, his fingers curled protectively around the stem. “Come on. Bottoms up.”

“Bottoms up it is,” Dorian echoes, with the ghost of a smile, and raises his glass to his lips.

 

* * *

 

The Chargers set out for Therinfal Redoubt a few days later, with Krem at their head; meanwhile Bull follows the Inquisitor to Crestwood and kills his first dragon for good measure. Which is great, except for the part where he insists on trying to tell Krem about it in great detail while he’s jacking him off, which kind of kills the mood until Krem grabs his horns without warning and vaults onto his shoulders, and so gets his point across.

He asks Bull once about his intentions regarding Dorian and gets a shit-eating grin and an invitation to join them for his trouble, which he tells Bull is very magnanimous of him but he thinks he’ll pass. As far as sex goes he likes being able to get his rocks off when his blood’s up in the wake of battle, and Bull’s seen him at his worst and not batted his one remaining eyelid, and that’ll do him for now.

Maybe he’ll fall in love one day and maybe not, but this is _family._

Even in what passes for summer in the Frostbacks it’s never humid and still cool if a breeze catches you in the shade, and in Krem’s opinion, being able to spar through the day without risking heatstroke is worth freezing your arse off for nine months of the year. Even so, he’s still sheened with sweat and getting sticky beneath his binder as he shakes hands with the last of Vale’s Irregulars and claps him on the shoulder, flashing Rocky and Skinner a quick grin as he exits the practice ring. He’s never had such a variety of people to spar with, and he learns something from all of them, especially the ones who kick his arse. Talking of which, he should go up against Cassandra some time soon.

He washes up in his room (and isn’t that a luxury?) before going in search of dinner, his hunger very much making itself known. His timing’s perfect: the stew is hot and the day’s second bread still steaming and as soft as it ever gets in Ferelden, and he sits down at one end of the corner table with a view out over the mountains and decides that his life has turned out pretty fine, all things considered.

Which is when Bull and Dorian plonk themselves down next to him with a rattle of crockery – and in Dorian’s case, an expression like he’s been sucking on lemons.

“You’re absurd,” he mutters, ripping into his bread with a force that makes Krem think, _never mind our barbarian manners._

“Well, you asked,” Bull replies entirely matter-of-factly, which just appears to annoy Dorian even more. Krem thinks it’s only half-feigned.

“ _Fasta vass,_ your sheer level of cognitive dissonance astounds me!” Dorian drops his bread again, all the better to gesture wildly, in a way that’s thoroughly Tevinter. “You claim we would all be better off under the Qun despite willingly admitting that it would _destroy_ most of us!”

Krem rolls his eyes. He’s not getting into this

“You’re not listening.” Bull ignores Krem’s glare, because of course it was _him_ who fucking started this. “Do I believe that life is better under the Qun? Yes. That doesn’t mean I would want to bring about the war required to impose it, or that I would want to subject most of the people here to it, when I know it would make them unhappy.”

“Oh, well isn’t that big of you! Yet you still believe we would be _better off_ without freedom, without individuality, without _names_ –”

“The Qun offers guidance. Equality. Does Tevinter allow you to live according to your nature?”

Dorian flinches, almost imperceptibly; Krem’s grip tightens on his spoon. There’s a reason he and Bull don’t talk about this.

Dorian’s recovered himself quickly. “At least Tevinter doesn’t _break_ you at the first sign of deviation. At least you have _choice_ –”

Krem finds himself saying, “ _Slaves_ don’t have choice.”

Well. So much for not getting into this.

Dorian blinks. “Look. I’m not saying Tevinter’s perfect, far from it.”

“But it’s _better_ , isn’t it?” Krem leans back, folding his arms. He can feel Bull looking at him. “The _viddathari_ don’t agree. What use are choices, when your choices are all shitty?”

Sell yourself into slavery, or force your son to marry a man who will only ever see him as a woman.

“It’s the principle of the thing!”

“Well that’s nice if you can afford it.”

“You’d be _happy_ like that, then? With no free will of your own?”

 _Aqun-athlok,_ Krem thinks, and replies, “I’d go where they point me.”

Dorian throws up his hands. “They _chain their mages!_ ”

“Because mages have done so much good in Tevinter!”

“ _Fasta vass, Cremisius_ , it’s not about magic. Power corrupts, it’s true, but isn’t our homeland worth _fighting_ for, not just _giving up on–_ ”

“I’m _wanted_ in my ‘ _homeland’.”_

It has the effect of a drawn sword: Dorian’s mouth snaps shut, and beside Krem, Bull is utterly still.

Krem is abruptly aware that the dining hall has filled up, and people are watching them. He grits his teeth, and takes a deep breath in through his nose. “Tevinter gave up on _me._ At least the Qun would let me hit things in peace. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

He takes the rest of his bread up to the battlements and wedges himself in one of the crenellations, tearing off little pieces and popping them into his mouth, still smarting.

_Fucking smug altus git, thinking we’re so alike._

_If they hate him so much, why doesn’t he let them go?_

He’s stripped the crust bare by the time the door opens, revealing Bull.

“He really pissed you off, huh.” Bull saunters over, leaning against the stonework by Krem’s feet. “Not often I see people get under your skin like that, Krembob.”

“Fucking nobles. This isn’t the floor of the Magisterium.” It’s a complaint rather than an explanation; one of the things Krem likes about Bull is that he rarely needs to explain anything, because Bull pretty much knows it all already.

Which isn’t to say that he doesn’t have any blind spots of his own, and Krem doesn’t only mean that literally.

“If I wanted to become _viddathari,_ what would you say to me?”

Bull goes still, and is silent for long enough that Krem thinks he’s not going to answer.

“I’d say, don’t.”

For a moment, Krem considers asking.

“Okay,” he says instead, and Bull reaches out and pats him on the leg before swiping the breadcrust from Krem’s loose grip and stuffing the whole thing in his mouth before Krem can grab it back.

“Hey!”

“You snooze, you lose.” Bull grins around a mouthful of partially-chewed bread, and Krem rolls his eyes and tries not to give him the satisfaction of smiling.

 

* * *

 

There’s a knock on Krem’s door late that night, when he’s just about to go to sleep; it’s Dorian, holding a candle and a small earthenware pot containing a dozen olives, deep purple-black and glistening.

“I’m afraid I couldn’t get any that weren’t already plucked,” he says instead of a greeting; and it takes Krem a moment, but when it clicks the noise he makes is somewhere between a laugh and a groan.

It looks like him and the Chief are perfect for each other, actually.

“That’s appalling,” he replies, reaching out and popping one into his mouth, and as the flavour hits for a moment he feels dangerously close to crying.

Dorian, still watching him, says very gently, “Tevinter matters a great deal to me, and I know I’m privileged in even potentially having the power to change things for the better. I’m hoping you’ll be willing to help me become less blinkered.”

Well then.

Krem gestures to the chair opposite his bed, as Dorian waves his hand and brings all the candles in his room to life. “Just after I came of age my father’s business failed, and when I wouldn’t marry a man who would never see me for who I was, he became a _servus publicus_ to save us from destitution.” He’s well aware of the implications of what he’s just said, but can’t help the traitorous thread of relief when Dorian doesn’t look surprised. “That’s what I meant about freedom.”

“I see. I – overheard Bull and Cole talking about you, some weeks ago, and put two and two together. I don’t know what it’s called in the Trade Tongue, but my friend Maevaris calls it _secus mutare_. She’s the one who sent me these olives. She’s a Magister.” Dorian smiles at whatever expression is on Krem’s face. “The scandal was huge, of course – made worse by her marrying a dwarf, who amusingly enough was also Varric’s cousin – but she made herself too powerful for anyone to touch her. It’ll take time, but I’m hoping that one day you’ll be able to return. If you want to.”

There’s a tightness beneath his breastbone, but Krem forces himself to nod, as if that idea isn’t doing complicated things to his stomach. “I’d like to see my father again. Let him know I did alright. See if – if there’s anything I can do. I’d have to not be a criminal still, though.”

“Well, when I return, I’m definitely going to need a bodyguard?”

Suddenly, it’s easy for Krem to grin. “Well don’t look at me, I’ve already got a job.”

 

* * *

 

A week or so later, the Chargers follow the Inquisitor to the Storm Coast; and there was a moment, standing exposed on the cliffs with the rain on his face and the grey sky above, where Krem thought that was that, and decided he didn’t mind.

The Chief had never been happy about any of this; and Krem had thought at first that it was just him being the least Qunari a qunari could be, but then he’d realised the lack of opposition was just too easy. Well, it was far from the first time he’d stared the possibility of his own end square in the face. Not such a bad way to go, if that was what it came to; fighting for the greater good and all. Certainly better than the Krem who ran from Tevinter with only the shirt on his back would have dared hope.

 _Horns up_ – and even when the tide turned beneath their feet, a line of Venatori heading up the beach towards them and he thought Bull wasn’t going to make the call, Krem never stopped trusting them.

A fog is settling low around them when him, Dalish, Skinner and Grim make it back to their camp, and for once he’s glad for the trappings of the Inquisition, for not having to light their own fire or cook their own food, and he can just concentrate on cleaning the blood off his maul and not have to talk to anyone for a bit. Not that anyone’s talking. They all know how close they came as well as he does.

And though they had more than enough time in the end, he knows none of them will have missed the moment where they looked as one from their approaching enemy up to the Inquisitor’s party high on the cliff opposite, and saw that they were seen, and the call for retreat still did not come.

He looks up at the clank of approaching metal to see the Inquisitor’s party emerging from the fog, two distinctive sets of horns bringing up the rear. No Gatt, which confirms what Krem already suspected; and Bull’s expression is as blank as it always is when he doesn’t want to give anything away but _come on_ , Krem wasn’t born yesterday.

The Inquisitor puts a hand on Bull’s arm, and lets it linger for a moment; Dorian is off to one side and looking at Bull, until he sees Krem watching him.

He walks over and leans against Krem’s rock, shoving him gently with his shoulder until he moves over. “Gatt called him Tal-Vashoth.” His voice is pitched low, and he’s deliberately mumbling; he’s learning, then. “I can’t help wanting to do something, though I know nothing I could do would possibly help.”

Krem slides the rag he’s holding not-so-subtly up and down the handle of his maul. “You could try putting out.”

“Hah!” But Dorian’s eyes narrow. “And you’re playing matchmaker, are you?”

Which Krem’s learned enough to know is Dorian-speak for, _are you alright with this?_

“It’s going to take him a while to figure out that he still knows who he is.” At the other side of the campsite Bull’s busying himself cleaning his own axe, as if he’s got no idea he’s being talked about. “Best thing you can do for him in the meantime is to let him give you what he thinks you need.”

Dorian is uncharacteristically silent beside him, arms folded across his chest; but the silence is thoughtful rather than tense, and Krem lets it linger before adding, “I’ll even offer you my half of the bedroll.”

He thinks Dorian’s huff is supposed to sound outraged, but in fact it’s something closer to fond. “Thank you, but no. If I do – decide to ‘ride the Bull’, as you all so charmingly put it, I will at least do so in the comfort of an actual bed. But in the meantime, if you think it’ll help, I do have half a dozen hot peppers in my pack, direct from Minrathous…?”

Krem’s almost embarrassed by how eagerly he asks, “How can I persuade you to put all of them in the stew?”

“Well, praise generally goes a long way.”

Krem raises an eyebrow. “You’re not bad. For an altus.”

Dorian looks particularly smug. “The feeling is mutual, _amicus._ And now if you’ll excuse me, I need to see a scout about some dinner.”

Krem watches him walk around the fire, stopping to exchange a few remarks with Bull that end with Dorian pulling a face and pressing a hand to his breast, with a feigned outrage that just a few months ago would have left Krem thinking him a prick, but now makes him smile instead. He’ll definitely enjoy watching this play out.

Like most things, the truth’s probably somewhere in the middle: they’re not as alike as Dorian thinks, nor as utterly unalike as he often does. But he’s also not sure it matters.


End file.
